


To The Skies

by bubblesodatea



Category: Lockwood & Co. - Jonathan Stroud
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - World War II, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff, Minor Character Death, POC Anthony Lockwood, POC Lucy Carlyle, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-08-14 05:48:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20187292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblesodatea/pseuds/bubblesodatea
Summary: "They that sow the wind, shall reap the whirlwind."How Lucy falls in love, fights, and grows up over the course of the war.





	1. kingdoms built on glass

Lucy considers herself a modern woman; she does not require any_ thing _ or any _ one _ to function, thank you very much. When she declares this to her family, it’s met with a smack on the arm from her mother and an eye roll from Mary. 

“You can hardly call yourself a woman,” Mary says, pink painted lips pushed into a pout as she plaits Lucy’s hair. The older girl tugs harder than necessary. “I sure didn’t know what I was doing when _ I _ was sixteen. You’ll forget about all that working gibberish when you meet your first beau and start discovering more important things.”

Lucy digs her nails into the tartan fabric of her school skirt. She’s had this argument enough times to know that snapping back will do nothing, but thousands of rebuttals whirl around in her mind regardless. 

_ Wanting to be respected for my achievements isn’t gibberish. _

_ I was accepted into Fittes Academy for a reason. _

And, because Lucy is still very much a sixteen year old: 

_ It’s not my fault you have the abilities of a goldfish, Mary. _

She doesn’t say any of this. Instead, when Mary finishes her braids, Lucy gets to her feet and haughtily remarks “I think I can handle both.” 

…

It’s 1938. A year that, to Lucy, holds a lot of promise. 

It’s her first term at Fittes, and she’s a year younger than her peers, but she does her best to hold her head up high. At first, she was grateful for the identical school-provided skirt sets than all the girls wear, but she still sticks out. The girls at Fittes are all pale and petite, with delicate button noses and neatly set hair. Lucy tugs self-consciously at a dark braid and tries to ignore the stares. 

She’s bright but silent in the classroom, so no one is outright rude to her. At her old school, Lucy would have picked fights with condescending boys and lept to be included in football, but it doesn’t seem like the kind of thing she can do in these prestigious halls. Lucy takes home economics instead of fencing, and learns to sew, knit, and curtsy. 

In the third week of October, George Cubbins (the one boy in home economics) is the only person to try her lemon-chocolate-rhubarb digestives. 

“Could use a bit more sugar, but not bad,” he says, and finishes off the plate. 

And just like that, they’re friends. 

…

The day she meets him is a normal rainy November afternoon. Thunder rumbles, wind blows, but Lucy is safe from it all underneath the awning of the Marissa Fittes Hall. 

If, in her future, you were to ask her what the precise date was, or what book she happened to be reading while waiting for George, she would not be able to recall. If you were to ask her exactly _ what _made that rainy day so notable, she would remember in a heartbeat. 

On a horridly drizzly day in London, November-something, 1938, while Lucy is deep in the words of an unknown and utterly forgettable novel, she is suddenly splashed with rainwater. 

She sputters out something rude, but is cut off mid sentence by warm pair of hands steadying her. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” the splasher gasps, and Lucy pushes her bangs up to meet the eyes of an angel. 

He’s built like a dapper beanpole, bright eyes shining even in the gloom of the afternoon. His pale cheeks were flushed a pleasant pink, and his lips part slightly as he examines Lucy for any sign of harm. He was wearing the standard Fittes uniform, but it seems to fit him in a manner more flattering than it had any other boy. 

“Um,” Lucy says, acutely aware that his slender fingers were still gripping her arms. “Don’t do that again.” 

Lucy had been referring to splashing her with water, but the boy clearly misunderstands her and releases his hold. He smiles sheepishly. 

“Apologies. I was looking for someone and lost my balance. You’re absolutely wet, aren’t you?” 

Lucy blinks up at him. “Pardon?” 

Before she can get the word out, however, he’s already shrugging out of his dark grey jacket and slipping it over her shoulders, filling her senses with the aroma of Earl Grey and sunshine. 

“You can keep it,” he says breathlessly, chest heaving. “I have to go.” 

The dark-haired boy turns and dashes around the corner; Lucy is left there, warm, flushed, and confused. 

She shifts the jacket around and reads the name patch sewn onto the breast pocket. 

  1. _ Lockwood._

… 

She hadn’t noticed until then, but he’s in her English class. He sits at the front, next to a sour-looking ginger boy. He offers to read passages a lot, and his accent is so unique that Lucy can’t help but pay rapt attention. It’s similar to the RP accents everyone puts on at Fittes, but there’s something light and airy about it, like he’s dancing around the r’s. 

She doesn’t usually offer to read in class — Kat Godwin made fun of her voice once, and she’s been hesitant ever sense — but when the professor announces passages from _ Much Ado About Nothing _, she immediately raises her hand to play Beatrice. 

It should be unsurprising, but she’s still stunned when Lockwood volunteers himself as Benedick. 

They recite. 

“By my sword, Beatrice, thou lovest me,” Lockwood says. 

Lucy sits up in her seat and tries to draw herself like Beatrice would, sharp-tongued and witty. Powerful, lovely, contrite. “Do not swear, and eat it.”

“I will swear by it that you love me, and I will make him eat it that says I love not you,” Lockwood responds, glancing up from his book to lock eyes with her. She’s certain that the teasing look he gives her is a part of his acting, and not actually intended for her. 

They read through the scene, and the hammering of her chest quiets down to steady beat as she grows more comfortable in the role. Lockwood’s eyes are encouraging, even as Kat Godwin mutters something snide to the rat-faced ginger boy. 

Down the page, they reach her favorite part of the play, and Lucy doesn’t even need to look at the script. 

“...With public accusation, uncovered slander, unmitigated rancor,” Lucy reads, slamming her book close. The students around her start at the sudden display of passion, but Lucy is too excited to care. She stares over Lockwood’s shoulder and meets the eyes of Kat Godwin. 

“Oh God, that I were a man!” Lucy exclaims, “I would eat his heart in the marketplace!”

She delivers the line with such fervor, such earnestness, that a few of her peers actually seem impressed. Kat looks away from her, pale lips curled into an unpretty snarl. The ginger boy looks more amused than anything. 

Pleased, Lucy turns back to Lockwood, and his expression sends a flutter down to her stomach. His face, normally composed, is beaming up at her with astonishment. Though the weather outside the walls of the classroom is grey and drab,the way he looks at Lucy feels as if a ray of golden light has fallen on her. 

Lockwood collects himself and they continuing reading, but there’s something soft in his voice that wasn’t there before. 

… 

The members of the Carlyle family are as listed: 

Simon Carlyle, blond, once-handsome, a Great War veteran who saw very little combat but drinks it away nonetheless. Or, perhaps it should be “drank,” but Lucy isn’t certain. Her father left when she was little, and for all she knows, he’s dead in a gutter somewhere. 

The matriarch, Veena Carlyle (née Desai), is swarthy and distant. Despite having grown up under her care, Lucy knows very little about her mother, and thinks herself better for it. 

And then the seven daughters, in order from oldest to youngest. Charlotte, Priya, Indira, Tara, Beth, Mary, and Lucy. They’re scattered over London, and Lucy doesn’t blame them for not visiting often; they’re all kind enough and seem to like her, but they avoid their mother. Charlotte and Priya have married handsome fellows, Indira works in radio, and Tara’s moved in with a milkman. There’s little reason to come to the sad little flat where Lucy and her mother stay. 

… 

Sometimes, Lucy stares at herself and wishes parts of her body away. Her hair is dark and heavy, and she thinks her mouth is too long. When she stands with the other girls in the class, she looms over them, and she’s had to sew extra trim onto the hem of her skirt just to stay within dress code. She’s not plump — her family could never afford enough food for her to be so — but broad, and Lucy hates it. 

There are times when Lucy is grateful for her appearance, and she feels even worse then because she’s glad that her skin isn’t as dark as her mother’s, and that her nose is thin and straight. When she thinks this, she’s overcome with a heavy sense of guilt. 

No one calls her names on the street, and she’s lucky that her name is English enough that most people don’t even realize her background. But Lucy is realistic, and accepts the fact that she’ll never be beautiful. 

Good riddance to the braids. She takes her mother’s crafting scissors and cuts her hair into a bob. 

… 

Lockwood approaches her after class one day. 

“I like your haircut.” 

“Oh. Thank you.” 

“You’re Lucy, aren’t you? Lucy…” 

“Carlyle. You’re A. Lockwood.” 

“How did you…” A pause, and then laughter. “My jacket. I’m Anthony Lockwood.” 

“I still have it — do you want it back?” 

“No, it’s fine. I said you could keep it.” 

“I really don’t need it. I’ve washed it and everything, so I really should give it back.” 

“How about you bring it to me tomorrow, then? I can meet you at Figment’s.” 

Lucy blinks. Figment’s was a cafe, nicer than any she had ever gone to. She hesitates. 

“Alright then.”

…

Lockwood is kind. Lockwood is dashing. And Lockwood is exceptionally handsome, so really, Lucy can’t be blamed for fancying him. When they meet at Figment’s he takes the jacket, but he also takes her hand and leads her into the cafe. She feels silly sitting there among the Tiffany lamps and the leather seats, but his gaze is on her and she really can’t protest. 

He pays (“What kind of gentleman would I be otherwise?”), and Lucy enjoys the meal greatly. She feels like a proper adult, sitting and talking with a boy in public. There are even daubs of rouge on her cheeks and she had smushed a pouf of powder on her nose a few times. The effect is imperceptible, but Lockwood compliments her appearance all the same. 

Lucy finds that she enjoys their conversations. They flit from topic to topic easily: their studies, movies, Neville Chamberlain, and ghosts are all discussed in rapid succession. Neither of them know much about international politics, but Lockwood’s parents are well traveled and Lucy reads, so together they manage a decent global discussion. 

She tells him of her desire to do a little of everything; Lucy’s ambitious, but she’s not yet sure what for. She wants to pen books, to adventure, to create. The world seems so ripe with possibilities that Lucy can’t bear to section herself to one career. 

Lockwood is agreeable, eyes shining as she tells him about her future. 

“I want to do something that no one’s ever done before,” she announces, feeling unusually bold from her full stomach and Lockwood’s encouragement. 

“I can hardly wait to see it,” he says.

It hadn’t crossed her mind that Lockwood might have any genuine interest for her, so when he stands and asks her if she’d be open for another lunch, Lucy nearly chokes on her tea. 

There’s such sincerity and eagerness on his face, a puppyish sort of love, that Lucy has no choice but to say yes. 

… 

She falls quickly, much to the annoyance of George. Lucy doesn’t talk about Lockwood much, but she thinks of him often, and more than once she’ll fade from a conversation, thinking about the tall boy. They flit around each other, nothing quite confirmed or denied between them. Subtle glances, demure greetings, and smiles; Lucy wonders is this is what love feels like. 

It’s 1939, a new year, her final one at school. She wonders what she’ll do afterwards; the whole world seems ripe for her picking, but the adults around her seem frayed at the edges. The history professor devotes an entire week to an impromptu lesson about Germany. Lucy tries to keep up with the news, but it’s hard when there’s so much more going on in her life. 

“After I graduate, I’m going to marry Quill. He’s of a good family, and he’s not terrible to look at,” Kat Godwin announces during lunch one day. Lucy glances over to where Quill Kipps is sitting, out of earshot. She tries to imagine the pair together: waifish, sneering Godwin arm in arm with a top-hatted Quill, and laughs. The girls around Godwin chime in with their own hopes. Lucy turns to George. 

“What do you want to do after graduation, George?” 

George swallows his bite of apple and shrugs. “Doesn’t really matter. Haven’t you heard what’s going on in Poland? We’ll be in the trenches again by June.” 

Lucy’s not really sure how to respond to that, and she takes an uncomfortable bite of her sandwich. She’s heard stories of the Great War before, from her mother and neighbors, even from her eldest sister’s faint recollections. War still seems too distant to be real to her. She can’t imagine how her life could continue — it sounds like the end of the world. 

George, flippant as ever, reaches for her fruit cocktail with enviable calm and plucks it off the table.

…

Here’s how it finally happens: 

(Love, that is, not war.) 

The grounds are usually empty after class hours, with most students tucked inside their dormitories, but Lucy likes to walk around the campus from time to time. It had been raining the past few days, but it’s blessedly clear that evening. The grass grows green and lush in this little spot outside London. Stars sprinkle the deep night sky, and every so often an airplane cuts a light across the dark expanse. She’s never been on a plane before but it seems magical. Lucy is lost in her thoughts, as she often is, and is awoken from her reverie by a warm voice. 

“Lucy.” 

She turns her head and finds Lockwood standing a few paces away from her, snugly bundled in a blue greatcoat that complements his eyes. His face lights up at her attention, and a few long-legged strides later, he’s standing next to her. 

“It’s a lovely night, isn’t it?” Lockwood murmurs, his gaze fixed on the streetlamps further down the pathway. She agrees, and looks down at his hands. His fingers are long and slender, stiff from the cold. Lucy wonders if reaching out and grasping them would help. 

Lockwood’s unusually quiet tonight; ordinarily, the boy has a considerably liking for prattling on. Conversation between the two usually went well because he was so good at chattering away. Lucy wracks her head for a decent topic.

“I’m glad that oranges are back in season. Fresh marmalade is one of my favorites on toast, “ she says. It’s a dull topic, but she looks back to see that Lockwood is now staring at her with rapt attention.

“Lucy, I like you terribly,” he declares, with all the conviction that only a teenage boy can muster. Lucy blinks. 

“What — because of the marmalade?”

In her confusion, he takes her hands into his. She can feel the chill on his skin through the leather of her gloves, but she the goosebumps she gets underneath her shirt aren’t from the cold.

“I know we haven’t much time before we leave the academy, but if you let me, I’d like to get to know you better,” Lockwood says, his bright eyes earnest. “You’re so brilliant, Lucy. Your passion is infectious, and I find you fascinating.” 

An older, more experienced Lucy would have probably laughed at the boy’s naivete, but this young Lucy is endeared. She’s never been described in such flattering words by anyone other than her sisters, and to hear them from the dashing boy seems to be some sort of fantasy come to life. 

“Lockwood — Anthony, I mean — I like spending time with you too,” she says, heart hammering beneath her winter coat, and _ yes _ this is probably what true love feels like. His face is close enough to hers now that she can see every delicate freckle, can feel the graceful curve of his dark lashes against her forehead. The world around them seems to be holding its breath. 

She stands on her tiptoes, inching imperceptibly higher until their lips meet. It’s her first kiss, and it becomes clear that it’s his first too; it’s not unpleasant, but Lockwood misses her mouth a little bit and Lucy’s painfully aware of how chapped her lips are. 

Still, when they pull apart and smile at each other, Lucy feels as if she’s conquered the world. 

… 

The time that they spend together is sweet. Neither of them feel particularly inclined to display their petting in public, choosing to indulge in their affections for each other in private instead. They don’t do anything beyond kissing, but Lucy’s more than content with that. 

She meets his family at 35 Portland Row. His parents are loving and eager to learn more about her, and Lucy enjoys the stories that they tell of Indonesia and South Africa. His sister, Jessica, is kindhearted and every bit as handsome as Anthony.

“You’re welcome here anytime,” Mrs. Lockwood says one night, giving Lucy a warm hug.

Lucy doesn’t tell her family that she’s going steady with a boy; her mother hardly cares what she does with herself to begin with, and Lucy doesn’t need her older sisters chaperoning her and Lockwood. The only person she tells is George, who gives her a long-suffering sort of look and says “I _ know _, Lucy. He won't stop talking about it.” 

One day in April, Lockwood sits Lucy down on the steps outside the library and hands her a small velvet box. 

‘I thought it was perfect for you,” Lockwood says, giving her his signature brilliant grin. Inside the case sits a signet ring, golden and with a thin band.

“Lockwood, I—” Lucy says, her heart blooming. The gesture warms her soul, and she gives Lockwood a kiss on the cheek as he helps her put the ring on. She looks down at her hand. The design on the face of the ring is simple: two interlocked rapiers and small character beneath the blades. 

“Is that your family crest?” Lucy asks.

“Yes,” he says, and takes her hand into his. As he speaks, his finger traces the designs on the ring. “The two rapiers are a symbol of the trades my family used to have in Hong Kong. Below them is the Chinese character for “Leong,” which was our surname in Cantonese.” 

As he says this, his voice is even, but there’s a pulse of nervousness beneath his facade. Lucy doesn’t ask why he’s fidgety, or why his family changed their surname when they reached England. She doesn't need to. It’s the same reason her sisters lighten their skin and Lucy only speaks English.

She squeezes his hand, and they share an understanding that’s more meaningful than any kiss. 

… 

She turns 17 in July. Priya takes her shopping for a nice dress, and Indira promises that she’ll teach her how to do makeup. Lucy and Lockwood enjoy a picnic at sunset.

...

It couldn't last. They make it through graduation and the summer, but all the rings and picnics in the world can’t bridge what happens next. In autumn, Germany invades Poland, France declares war on Germany, and England follows suit. There are people singing “God Save the King” and waving flags on the third of September, but none of Lucy’s countrymen look particularly joyful. When the news breaks over the radio, Lucy sees her neighbor, the normally brusque Mr. Shaw, break down and clutch his son into his chest. 

(Later, she’ll learn that all three of Mr. Shaw’s brothers died in France. The wailing that comes from their flat the day Ned Shaw is reported as killed in action is harrowing.)

Kat Godwin and her family flee to their Canadian estate the day war is announced. Quill Kipps, who is a year older than Lockwood, has already been conscripted into service — so much for the Kipps-Godwin wedding Lucy had dreamed of attending.

George turns 18 in October, but he fails the vision exam and is sent to work in radio instead. It’s a good fit. He’s always been a thorough researcher, and knowing that he’ll be safe in London makes him hug Lucy in relief. 

Lockwood turns 18 in November, and is conscripted the week after. 

She remembers seeing the draft letters, and feeling the paper in her hands. She remembers his forlorn expression and the whispered promises from the both of them, the tears in the corners of his eyes as he holds her face. 

“I love you,” Lucy says, emotions overwhelming her. They’ve never called what they have “love,” but at this moment, it feels right. She tightens her grip on his shirt and kisses him so fiercely that Lockwood is breathless. 

“I—I love you too,” he murmurs. “And I will see you again, when this is all over.” 

She opens her mouth, ready to reassure him that he will, but she can’t say it. The words fall dead in her throat, and she lets go of him. They stare at each other, and Lucy desperately wants to say _ you’ll be back before you know it _ or _ they might not even send you overseas _ or _ I’ll write to you _, because none of those seem true or feasible. 

Instead, all she can choke out is a “Goodbye.” 

She doesn’t cry when she gets home that night. Instead, Lucy sits silently on the bed, fingers twisted around her ring, and wonders how she didn’t see how fragile it all was.

...

It’s 1939, the year that Lucy’s life was supposed to begin. Instead, it seems to be falling apart around her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Thank you so much for reading. This came from my own WWII AU, of which I did a drawing for over on my art tumblr (@allthatbubbles). 
> 
> Some notes:  
\- Lucy is half-Indian on her mother's side. (As it will pertain in future chapters, yes, it was possible for a non-white woman to join the WAAF. A great example is Noor Khan.)  
\- Lockwood is of mixed Chinese/English descent.  
\- On paper, England did not have the same segregation that America had at the time, but racism was no means better or more palatable for people of color. It should be noted that both Lucy and Lockwood are white-passing, with the addition of Lockwood's family being powerful enough to earn the (perhaps reluctant) respect of his peers at Fittes. Their background is important to their identity, but not the focus.  
\- Kipps is a year older than his peers. Perhaps he was held back a grade?
> 
> I can't think of any historical notes for this chapter, so thank you for reading! Please leave a comment if you'd like. :)


	2. kingdoms built on sand

January, 1940. A momentous month. Lockwood has been gone for eight weeks, and they exchange letters regularly.

She moves out of her mother’s flat, taking exactly one suitcase and a knapsack, and moves into Mary's spare room. 

Rationing is introduced in England. Mary lies about Lucy’s age and so Lucy is given a child’s blue ration book in addition to the household one. They get extra servings of butter, meat, and fruit. Lucy snarks at her for lying to the government during war times, and Mary frowns.

“I’m not doing this for us, Lucy. I’m doing it for the people the government have forgotten.” 

Lucy doesn’t fully understand until she sees Mary hand out meals to the refugees outside the Polish embassy. 

… 

March, 1940. The weeks trickle on. Lucy receives a short telegram from Lockwood, but is unable to respond due to the lack of a return address. Its content are brief and distantly pleasant. Lucy wonders how much he can really say, being in training and all.

Lucy, who has always been good at sketching, is hired by Mr. Humbert (a large-bellied man with a voice like a gong) to hand-draw maps of the world. The pay is decent.

When she isn’t looking, Lucy slips extra notes into Mary’s wallet and plays dumb when her sister brings it up. 

She has Sunday lunches with the Lockwoods; Mr. Lockwood has an injury from the Great War that exempts him from the draft, and Lucy can tell that Mrs. Lockwood is grateful despite herself. 

Finland signs over land to the Soviet Union. Japan takes Nanking. 

At home, Lucy takes a sip of earl grey and paints the border around Spain.

… 

May, 1940. Winston Churchill becomes Prime Minister, and Lockwood sends her a clipping of the newspaper the trainees received announcing the news along with a brief note. Lucy wonders what he looks like now. He’d always been skinny and genteel, and the idea of a hulkish Lockwood makes her laugh. Then she realizes that seven months have passed and that for all she knows, he could look like that now. 

Lucy asks Mary if she can help with the food service, and so they set up a system where Mary prepares meals and Lucy delivers them. She learns some curse words in Polish and teaches them some English ones. 

The night after the evacuation at Dunkirk, George and Lucy have dinner together. 

“I’m worried about Lockwood,” George says, barely touching his meatloaf. 

“Beyond the usual reasons?” asks Lucy.

“He’s in the RAF, and they haven’t announced the death count yet — ” 

Lucy drops her fork. “Anthony’s in the air force?” 

…

July, 1940. Lockwood writes back to Lucy, a long letter with apologies about not keeping her updated, asks her to wish George well, and tells her that he misses her. The letter she writes to him is so long that she barely manages to stuff it in the envelope.

Cardiff and Plymonth are bombed in quick succession, and Lucy learns what the  _ Luftwaffe _ is. 

Lucy turns 18. 

… 

September, 1940. 

South London is bombed. 

Lucy sees 35 Portland Row blown down to rubble. 

She thinks of Mr. Lockwood and how he started in Hong Kong and fought his way up to a proper home in London, all for his family. 

She thinks of Mrs. Lockwood and her stories, the gleam in her eyes when she leaned over to Lucy and whispered “I think you’d be an even greater adventurer than I was.” 

She thinks of Jessica, headstrong, so much like Lucy, but  _ better _ . The woman who wrote fearlessly and refused to publish anything until her editor paid her the same per-word as he paid his male writers. 

She thinks of Anthony, and cries.

… 

January, 1941. Auld Lang Syne, and all that. 

Lucy moves out of Mary’s flat, quits her map-drawing job, and registers with the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force. 

She figures it’s about time she stopped waiting like a child for the course of the war to flow past her. It’s about time that she be the ambitious, respected woman she always talked about being. 

Lucy twists the ring on her finger out of habit and gets to work. 

… 

November, 1943. Lucy is 21 and now considers herself as close to a grown-up as she’ll ever get. She wears an appropriate amount of cosmetics, which she sometimes deems is none, and can drive a car. She’s an aunt; Marcus Timothy Carlyle-Howard was born 4 April, 1942. She even knows how to properly pin her hair now, thanks to her flatmate Holly Munro (whom she hated at first, but now likes and considers a friend.) Her body had evened out a bit; she wasn’t suddenly lithe, but regular meals and the end of puberty had led to her growing tall and curvier in the hips than she would have liked. 

The war is like background noise to her. There are still atrocities that horrify her, and she never leaves home without a rationed first-aid kit, but it all seems painfully normal. England is no longer under constant fire, and Lucy walks past rubble and the empty casings of bombs daily. Keep calm and keep going, or whatever nonsense the poster says. 

When she joined the WAAF, her officer had learned of her talent for maps, and had recommended Lucy to be a plotter. She enjoys the work; it's all about strategy and geography, and thinking three steps ahead. It was nice to speak and have the men in the room listen to her because they didn’t know what Alsace-Lorraine was, or who was in control of Poland that week. Lucy can probably draw an accurate world map from memory. 

George works for the BBC now, a part of the radio team. She never hears his voice on the broadcast, but some nights there are phrases in the script that sound distinctly Cubbins, and it cheers her up to find them. Holly is a member of the WAAF as well; she analyzes photographs and meteorology reports, neither of which make any sense to Lucy. 

Funnily enough, the person she spends the most time with nowadays is Squadron Leader Quill Kipps. By coincidence he had been her unit’s trainer, a bad crash after being gunned down having permanently resigned the man to a wheelchair. 

“It’s not so bad,” Kipps says the first time he catches Lucy staring. He snuffs out a cigarette on the wheel and raises an eyebrow. “I’ve heard that the American president has the same model.” 

Lucy scoffs. “Perhaps we ought to ship you to Washington then.” 

They both work at the RAF Box in Wiltshire now, and Lucy has assigned herself the role of pushing Quill around the manor, seeing as they work on the same projects. He doesn’t need it, but allows it more for her companionship than anything else. Sometimes people call her Mrs. Kipps, and it sets them both off into fits of laughter.

It’s the middle of a war. They take what humor they can get. 

…

She doesn’t feel different, but she knows that logically, she’s changed since the beginning of the war. Who hasn’t? 

Late at night sometimes, she’ll stare up at the ceiling and wonder about Anthony Lockwood. She wrote to him about the destruction of 35 Portland Row; how she helped bury his family, how she saved bits of rubble in a jar, how she misses them. He never wrote back, and she can’t find it in herself to be angry at him. The RAF is scattered around the globe, and Anthony could be anywhere from Egypt to Japan to the depths of the ocean.

There’s one empty grave in the Lockwood family cemetery, yet Lucy lays flowers on all the tombstones. 

The dead will stay dead, and the living must move on. Lucy pins WAAF wings to her uniform and lives to fight another day.

…

“Have you heard the news? The Germans are thrashing the air force rather soundly,” Quill whispers, leaning over to where Lucy is sitting next to him. They’re technically in the middle of a meeting, but the speaker is ten minutes late. Quill continues gossiping when Lucy doesn’t reply. 

“Someone told me that they’ll be pulling back forces from the continent and bringing some pilots here. Sounds like to me these new lads have nothing but cotton between the ears,” he grumbles. 

Lucy rolls her eyes. “You speak as if you’re not barely older than them.”

“It’s not about age, Carlyle, but experience.” Quill sniffs in a matter not unlike a horse. “Lord, they better not send idiots. I’d rather roll myself into the English Channel than babysit.” 

… 

Lucy is chosen to be a group controller for Operation Overlord. It’s top-secret enough that not even she knows all the details, but she’s given high-level clearance and has a small pack of strategists and plotters that answer to her. 

Quill is assigned for the Operation as well; he works in coordinating air offenses. George Cubbins is relocated from London by the BBC, and he introduces them to Florence Bonnard. Flo’s a wiry blonde who translates French and German codes. Even Holly’s assigned to the Filter room, tasked with processing weather reports to the operation. 

“It’s almost like a school reunion for you three, isn’t it?” Holly asks as the five of them make their way down the hall one evening.They’ve been called in suddenly, which is curious as they all work in different fields. George (the only one in plainclothes) looks like he just rolled out of bed, and can only muster a grunt in reply. 

Lucy and Quill are directed to Central Control underground. She wheels him down the ramp and into the meeting room. 

The atmosphere is unlike any Lucy’s ever encountered, and as her gaze lands on the uniformed pilots sitting in the center of the room, she understands why. They’re fresh from Germany, home now after having been chewed up and spat out by the  _ Luftwaffe _ .

An air marshal announces himself and introduces the RAF pilots. They’re here to relearn, to share strategy, and to help plan something momentous. Each man, he says, is the best in their squadron  — the height of English air superiority. Lucy claps along with her coworkers. She catches Quill give the pilots a look equal parts irritated and wistful.

The air marshal starts introducing people around the room - not everyone, just the people with authority. She’s pleasantly surprised when he extends an arm to her. 

“Leading Aircraftwoman Carlyle will be in charge of our plotters. Carlyle has proven herself to be adept with maps and has infallible instincts.”

It’s high praise from a man Lucy barely talks to, but she’s grateful nonetheless. There’s a polite scattering of applause. Quill gives her a pat on the back. She looks across the room and meets the eyes of one of the pilots, who’s stopped clapping abruptly. He’s tall and slim, with wayward black curl peeking out under his peaked cap. His handsome face is made less enjoyable by the fact that he’s staring at Lucy with an expression reminiscent of a thunderstruck codfish. 

It’s Anthony Lockwood. 

…

“Lu  —  Leading Aircraftwoman Carlyle.” 

Lucy turns around, her stomach feeling as if it just dropped thirty feet, or perhaps whirled around in a washing machine. She finds herself face-to-face (or more accurately, face-to-chest) with Lockwood. Taking a step back, her eyes flit to the insignia on his sleeve that identify his rank. 

“Wing Commander Lockwood,” she says in response. After an awkward second, they shake hands. He’s wearing gloves, but she can feel the warmth of his hand through the leather. Lucy’s vaguely aware of the rest of the crowd filing out around them; Quill was the first to leave. She never thought she would miss him, but at the moment, Lucy would trade her soul for Kipps to come barging in.

As if he were reading her mind, Lockwood takes off his cap and folds it under his arm. “Was that Quill Kipps I saw with you?” 

Lockwood’s tone is light, conversational. As if they aren’t strangers now. As if his entire family hadn’t died while he was overseas, and he hadn’t had to hear about it from a girl he fancied four years ago. 

“Yes,” Lucy replied, her hands clasped together stiffly. Then, out of sheer pettiness, she corrects him. “He’s Squadron Leader Kipps, actually.” 

“Ah, I outrank him,” Lockwood says. He grins, seemingly pleased, but there isn’t much behind the expression. Lucy thinks of the megawatt smile he used to give her, and her heart sinks into her stomach. She nods mutely and steps forward, ready to leave. 

“I’m surprised you haven’t changed your last name.” 

Lucy stops in her confusion. “Whatever for?” 

Lockwood gestures at her left hand, and she follows the motion to see her signet ring twisted with the band facing up. “You and the Squadron Leader — although if I may be frank, I don’t think Lucy Kipps sounds as charming as Carlyle.” 

Horrified, Lucy realizes that the plain side of the ring looks like a simple wedding band. In her haste to remedy the situation, she twists the ring around and thrusts her hand in Lockwood’s face. 

“It’s not a wedding ring! Kipps and I — we’re not married.” 

She can feel herself turning red from embarrassment, but Lockwood isn’t looking at her. Instead, his gaze is on the signet of the ring, his eyes passing over the familiar twin rapiers and his family name. His cheek jumps.

Wordlessly, Lockwood snaps his cap back on and strides past Lucy, leaving her alone in the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some misc notes: 
> 
> \- Children's ration books were given to citizens aged 5-16. Otherwise, families were given ration books on a household basis, not personal. Fun fact: beer was never rationed.  
\- The life and treatment of Polish refugees is pretty interesting, especially in their association with the Polish embassy. A good read, especially in our current climate.  
\- At 18, Lucy would have been just too old to be considered a priority to send to the countryside during the Blitz. Many wealthier families did leave London (an example in this fic are Kat Godwin and her family), but I'd imagine that the stubborn and resilient Lockwoods would stay.   
\- The primary WAAF training center was in Wimslow, and the RAF station where Lucy and Quill work after the time jump is located in Wiltshire, so Lucy would have left London in 1941. She would have lived through the Blitz, but left soon enough to miss Operation Steinbock in 1944.   
\- Holly's race is ambiguous in this fic, just as it is in canon, although she is definitively nonwhite. See previous chapter for notes on WOC members of the RAF.   
\- George, being an employee of the BBC, is the only civilian of the main group.   
\- Leading Aircraftwoman (Lucy's rank) was more of an honorary rank, awarded to junior cadets who showed strong leadership roles. Lockwood does indeed outrank Kipps, being one rank higher. At 22, Lockwood would have been one of the youngest Wing Commanders. (The youngest was 21.) 
> 
> That's all the historical notes I have for this chapter! I hope you enjoyed the read, please stay in tune for the thrilling finale next chapter! It's shaping up to be a long one - more than 6k words thus far. If you did like this fic, please leave a comment~ Thanks!


	3. kingdoms built on slate

Lucy’s head’s been in a fog recently. In the two weeks since she and Lockwood reunited, they’ve hardly crossed paths. When they do, it’s awkward. She catches him staring at her every so often  — and admittedly, the only reason she sees him doing so is because she stares at him too. Neither George nor Quill knew that Lockwood was at Headquarters until Lucy told them. 

“I haven’t had a chance to talk to Lockwood,” George says brusquely when she asks him about it one day “We’re all busy.”

It doesn’t stop her from being distraught. When meetings get boring, her mind wanders off to the thought of him. He’s changed a lot. Lockwood’s even taller now, and while the man’s still skinny, he’s been filled out with some muscle. The way he speaks is different, fast and stiff, as if he can’t wait to leave a conversation  — but maybe that’s just with her.

Pride makes dictates that Lucy not mention this to anyone, but people end up noticing regardless. Overworked and distracted, she starts making mistakes at work. The first few times are excused, but one day she mistakenly labels a British Naval fleet as a U-boat on a map. Flo, who had been relaying her decoded information, pulls her into her empty office.

“What’s wrong with you?” Flo asks. She was never one to mince words. 

Lucy bristles. “Look, I know I made a mistake, but I outrank you and you can’t speak to me like that.” 

“I don’t fall under your department, Carlyle,” Flo says, crossing her arms. Her long, scraggly hair is pulled up into a severe bun, and she looks rather like an angry nursemaid. “I’m not just talking about today. You’ve been careless for days now, and your team has been scrambling over themselves to pick up your mistakes.”

Lucy feels her face flush red. Flo isn’t wrong (she rarely is), but being scolded for it like a child is humiliating. Rather than apologize, Lucy balls her fists and decides to let herself deeper into the grave she dug herself.

“Bugger off, Florence. Don’t go sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.” 

This seems to set something off in Flo. The blonde’s face, usually surly but unassuming, erupts into an expression of anger. She’s shorter than Lucy, but she gets up in her face and thrusts a finger at her chest.

“Carlyle, I was a spy before I came to England. I was a damn good one. If it had been up to me, I would have never left Paris. Do you know why I did?” Flo asks, clearly not waiting for an answer. “Because when I was sixteen, I made a careless mistake. I paid for it when the Nazis found out and shot my mentors shot in front of me. The only reason I’m not dead in a Parisian ditch was because they thought I was too young to know what was going on.” 

Lucy is stunned into silence. Flo glares at her, but the anger behind her eyes dissipates. She takes a step back. 

“We’re in the middle of a war bigger than any of us,” Flo says, softer than before. “You can’t afford to waste time on dwelling on insignificant things.” 

Then, as if confused by her own display of emotion, Flo looks away. Lucy’s face is still red, but more from shame now than anything else. 

Lucy straightens up. “Thank you,” she says quietly. After a moment of scrutinizing, Flo nods once and they both leave the office. 

For Lucy, the thanks is genuine. She isn’t sixteen anymore, and shouldn’t be distracted by the things (or people) that filled her mind at that age. She might have had a fling with Lockwood once, but that was years ago. He’s a different man now; one Lucy can’t understand, one that isn’t hers to love. She needs to let him go. 

Still, Lucy thinks as she accidentally meets Lockwood’s eyes, it’s easier said than done. 

… 

It’s a return to form. Lucy’s focus is back on her job, and everyone is much happier for it. Her subordinates seem less nervous around her, and Flo’s outburst seems to have brought the two women closer. She doesn’t outright avoid Lockwood, but she takes care not to bump into him when they’re in the same room or interact with him one-on-one. Ironically, the person who seems the most annoyed by this is Kipps. 

“He thought we were  — you know,  _ together _ ,” Quill says, pulling out a cigarette. He offers the box to Lucy, who declines. They’re sitting an empty mess hall, half-finished dinners in front of them. 

“Would we really be so bad as a couple?” Lucy teases. She wants to steer the topic away from Lockwood. Quill looks at her appraisingly, and then shakes his head. 

“You’re not my type,” he says gruffly. Lucy gasps in mock-offense, throwing a hand to her breast the way she’s seen femme fatales do in movies. 

“Damn you, Kipps!” she laments, sniffling loudly for added effect. “Now I’ll never have the ginger babies of my dreams!” 

Quill lets out a short bark of what passes as laughter for him. “You kid, but I’ll swear Kat said that word-for-word when we were in school.” 

“Really? I always thought you were together,” Lucy remarks. He shrugs.

“She wasn’t my type either.” 

“Ah, so you don’t favor tall brunettes, nor do you like short blondes,” Lucy says, pretending to be deep in thought. “So you must only love medium-sized redheads, such as yourself.” 

Quill takes a drag of his cigarette, one eyebrow cocked sardonically. “It’s amazing. You got that one-hundred percent correct.”

Lucy cheers, and right at that second, a flock of pilots come barreling into the mess. At the middle of the group is Lockwood, who peers over to where they’re sitting and looks away just as quickly. Quill lets out a low whistle. 

“Great. I can’t wait for another hour-long inquisition from the world’s biggest — and only — Lucy Carlyle enthusiast.” 

That’s her cue to respond with something equally as snarky, but Lucy can’t muster the wit. Quill follows her gaze and sighs. 

“Lord, don’t start asking me about him too.” 

Lucy jolts and smacks Quill lightly on the shoulder. “I wasn’t going to. I have bigger things to worry about than Anthony Lockwood.” 

…

Lucy is worried about Anthony Lockwood. 

The man is currently doubled over, hands on his knees, in the process of hacking out his lungs like a ashmatic cat. It’s an especially troubling sight because he’s in full service dress, his cap on the floor next to his feet. 

“ Wing Commander  Lockwood, are you alright?” Lucy asks, nearly dropping the stack of folders she’s carrying in her alarm. Lockwood lets out one final wheezing cough and straightens himself up. His eyes are watering, and when Lucy gets closer to him, she can smell smoke on his clothes. This comes as a surprise to her, because Lockwood never used to smoke, but Lucy supposes he might have picked up the habit as an adult. Then she looks down at his right hand. 

“You’re not supposed to inhale the filter,” Lucy says, pointing to the cigarette. 

Lockwood looks at the cigarette in his hands, almost surprised to see it there. 

“You smoke?” 

“No, but I’ve seen Kipps do it enough times to memorize the process. He smokes like a chimney,” Lucy says. 

“Truth be told, I’ve never smoked before,” Lockwood says. Lucy bites back a sarcastic quip, and in her silence Lockwood tosses the cigarette into the rubbish bin behind him and picks up his cap. 

“What made you want to start the habit now?” Lucy asks as he dusts off his cap. 

Lockwood gives her a grin equal parts roguish and sheepish . “Ah, if you must know…”

Lucy raises an eyebrow expectantly. 

“I saw you and Kipps having what looked like a  _ splendid _ time together in the mess, and I thought perhaps I’d catch you on a smoking break, since you’ve been avoiding me since I arrived in Wiltshire.” 

He says this all quickly in one breath (dangerous, because his lungs couldn’t have possibly recovered from that coughing fit yet.) 

Lucy gapes at him. 

“ _ Anthony! _ That is so…” She struggles to find the appropriate adjective. “ _ Stupid. _ ” 

Her words don’t seem to have any real effect on Lockwood. He’s beaming at her, much like he used to do when they were younger. It makes her feel like a teenager again, hopelessly endeared to the charismatic boy in her English class.

“What?” she asks. 

“You called me ‘Anthony,’ not ‘Wing Commander,’” he says. Lucy frowns. Part of her is glad to see such a familiar expression on him, but the rest of her is too sour to relish in it. 

“I haven’t been avoiding you. I’m busy. Besides, you were the one who walked out on me in the middle of our conversation,” Lucy says. Lockwood’s smile falls. 

Hesitantly, Lucy takes another step towards him. He doesn’t move towards her or away from her, just looks at her expectantly, lips parted slightly. She shifts her folders to one arm and reaches up towards his face, but pulls her hand back just before brushing his jaw. 

It’s stupid. She needs to remember that even though they never officially ended it, they aren’t together anymore. 

“We should pick up where we left off, then,” Lockwood murmurs, and Lucy isn’t certain if he’s referring to their conversation from two weeks ago, or everything that happened years prior. 

“Alright, then,” Lucy says. They stare at each other for another silent minute. In the past, this might be where she runs off joyfully to savor her date, but there's a raw practical edge to her now. She glances down at her arms and back at Lockwood.

“When are you free?”

“Not today or tomorrow evening. Are you available Thursday evening?”

“Yes — wait, no, I have to attend a meeting.” 

Lucy fights the urge to rub her temples. Planning dates seemed much easier when they were younger. 

“Alright, how about Friday?” 

“That works for me.” Lockwood leans down as if to kiss her, seems to think better of it, and presses his lips to her cheek instead. He smells the same, Lucy notes. Earl grey and sunshine. 

… 

There aren’t any posh restaurants like Figment’s on the military base, but there’s a half-decent pub nicknamed Gravedigger on the edge of town. Lucy’s used to the general chaos with the pub, but it’s quickly apparent that Lockwood isn’t used to these kinds of environments. He shows up at the door dressed in a freshly-ironed shirt and suspenders, startled when a half-naked sergeant barrels past him to vomit. 

“What an interesting place,” Lockwood says, taking a seat next to Lucy at the bar. 

“Haven’t you seen worse in Europe? I’ve heard that our young Englishmen go up and down Berlin, carousing and what not,” She asks, stirring a straw in her gin rickey. 

“I’m not the carousing type,” Lockwood says lightly. “Are you?” 

The question is casual, but there’s an underlying inquisition underneath it. 

“I suppose I’ve  _ carroused _ a few times,” Lucy says. 

“With men?” Lockwood asks. His tone is casual, but he’s gripping the menu like he’s trying to choke it.

Lucy takes a long sip of her rickey. “Perhaps. I can’t remember.” 

The truth (if he’s asking what she thinks he’s asking) is no. The only times she’s come to the Gravedigger are with her usual flock of friends, or a few people from work. Finding men hasn’t been high on her list of priorities since she’s moved to Wiltshire, but Lucy’s not telling Lockwood that. Partly because she doesn’t feel familiar enough around him yet, and partially because she’s curious about what he’s been doing in Europe. It’s juvenile, but if it turns out that Lockwood’s had some continental trysts, Lucy doesn’t want to seem like she’s falling behind in return. 

If she’s trying to get any information out of him, she’s not particularly successful. Lockwood turns away from her to order a drink and doesn't turn back to her until a neat shot of vodka is in his grasp. He downs it in one go. 

That more or less sets the tone for the evening. 

For the past hour and a half, their conversation is polite but dry. Lucy dances around talking about the war, which leads them with very little left to discuss. Lockwood’s perfectly kind, but Lucy catches him staring over her shoulder, and it feels like he doesn’t want to be there.

“Can I walk you home?” Lockwood asks, offering the crook of his elbow to Lucy. His eyes remain bright despite the fact that he’s been drinking as much as she has. They walk out to the chilly night sky. 

“It’s so dark out in the country” Lockwood notes. His voice is quiet, but it shatters the silence around them nonetheless. Lucy nods, leaning heavily on Lockwood’s side. 

“It’s the blackout curtains. They’re mandatory now, after what happened in London—” Lucy stops abruptly, biting her lip. “Sorry.”

Lockwood raises an impeccably groomed eyebrow. “What for?”

“For mentioning it,” Lucy stammers. “I’ve been trying not to all evening.” 

“What are you referring to, Lucy?” 

She hesitates. “The war. The war, and everything that’s happened in between.”

Lockwood stills. 

Lucy’s never seen such an expression on his face before; it’s as stony and cold as the side of an iceberg. His eyes shine even in the dim illumination of the moon. 

“Is that why you’ve been so unnatural tonight?” Lockwood asks softly. “You want to pretend that I didn’t use to love you. Or is this just how are you are these days?” 

Lucy unhooks herself from Lockwood’s side, a hot anger bubbling in her chest. “You can’t come back and pretend like nothing’s changed, Lockwood! It’s been four years. We’re different people. I’ve lasted this whole war without you, and I don’t need someone who hasn’t seen me since it’s begun deciding what is or isn’t natural.”

“Of course I know things have changed. There have been days in the RAF that seem to come from the seventh circle of hell. That doesn’t mean we don’t have history — Christ, Lucy, you keep calling me ‘Lockwood,” he says. Lucy’s never seen him properly frustrated, but she thinks that maybe that’s what he is now. Unlike Lucy, his anger runs cold. 

She takes a step forward, arms akimbo.

“ _ You stopped writing _ ,” Lucy hisses, because despite all her reassurances to herself that it was perfectly reasonable for him not to write, that he might have moved on or been preoccupied, the forefront of her mind always whispered that he was dead. 

Lockwood’s still, but his hands are trembling. “You wrote and told me my family died.” His voice cracks. “How was I supposed to respond to that? And now, you want to pretend like it didn’t happen — like they never lived at all.” 

“I  _ buried _ them,  _ Anthony _ !” Lucy cries. “No one else could do it, so I did. I brought flowers to them every week while I was still in London.” 

She sniffs loudly. Raising a hand to her cheek, she’s startled to feel that her face is wet. She’d been crying this whole time, and hadn’t even realized. 

“I brought flowers to your headstone too,” she murmurs, dark eyes blazing with emotion. “Just in case.” 

Anthony stares at her. 

Then he places his still-shaking hands on either side of her face and kisses her. 

It’s unlike any other kiss they’ve shared before; it’s raw and unrefined, his breathing ragged as she runs her hands down his chest. Lucy kisses his jaw and smells him again: earl grey, sunshine, and now  _ skin _ . 

“I’m still alive, Luce,” Anthony says, and she shivers at the way he whispers her name. “I’m still alive, and if we can’t pick up where we left off, then I suppose I’ll just have to learn you all over again.” 

In the dark of the night, Lucy smiles against his lips and pulls him home. 

… 

It’s calidity, it’s fever, it’s raw, uncovered heat. He burns like magma does down in the soul of the earth. She frees him, unearths him, and revels in her discoveries. 

It’s a melody. It’s an aria, finely played, as he strums her chords. It’s the crashing of cymbals, the whistle of a plane’s wing, the percussion of missiles. 

Her hands are more powerful than she could have imagined. His mouths utter little deaths. 

It’s war.

…

She doesn’t tell anyone what happened, but she doesn’t need to. The RAF headquarters is hardly the place for intimate trysts, but Kipps sees Anthony kiss her on the cheek one day, and promptly tells everyone. Neither of them have it in them to be genuinely annoyed. 

They can’t spend a lot of time together, but they don’t really need to. Their relationship is different from what it was before. It’s better. It feels like something _ more _ . Lucy’s heart doesn’t pine the way it did when she was younger; everything is simpler and more attainable. She feels like she’s outgrown the big, sweeping gestures of her adolescence. Stability is sweeter than any of that. 

Lucy keeps Flo’s warning in mind. She works harder than before, often times leaving her flat at dawn and not coming home until well after midnight. The planning for Operation Overlord is well underway, and Lucy’s busier than ever. 

“I’ve heard some Americans are calling it ‘D-Day’,” Holly remarks as she and Lucy walk to work one morning. 

All of Lucy’s fellow Englishmen call it Z-Day, except for Flo, who refers to it as  _ le jour J _ (or, J-Day.) Lucy wonders why the Allies can’t decide on one letter. 

The coastline of Normandy is cut up like a pie, divided into seventeen sections. It's a great strategy, but it means extra work for Lucy and her team, who have to reorganize, color, and label each slice down to each millimeter.

1944 comes faster than she would have liked. She and Anthony ring in the New Year together, his arm draped over her shoulder as they watch Quill read aloud some of his own poetry in her living room. George pulls a different face with every word that comes out of Kipps’ mouth, and Flo’s helping herself to Holly’s licorice root biscuits. Licorice root is one of the only sweets not rationed these days, but even George can’t bring himself to eat more than one bite. 

“...and eyes soft like cotton diamonds, a kiss just like a lion—”

Both George and Flo heckle Kipps; “‘Diamond’ doesn’t rhyme with ‘lion,’ you duffer.” and “What in God’s green earth is a cotton diamond?” Quill glares at them and recites even louder. 

“Terrible,” Anthony remarks, resting his chin on Lucy’s shoulder. She laces her fingers with his. 

“Absolutely horrid,” she murmurs. He peers up at her through his dark lashes and laughs softly.

“I like you terribly,” Anthony says, clasping his free hand over his heart.

“How corny. Didn’t all that time in France teach you anything about love?” 

“That’s funny, I seem to recall that working on you before,” Anthony grins, his eyes sparkling.

An Anne Shelton’s song ends, a soft-spoken radio presenter announces that the year is now 1944. There’s a round of applause in the apartment and Anthony and Lucy share a kiss. 

“Maybe this will be the final year of the war,” Anthony says. 

She squeezes his hand. “Maybe.” 

… 

Life still reaches her, even in this little bubble of war and secrecy. Lucy becomes an aunt to a pair of twins, and she and Holly coo over the baby picture Beth sends her. She still gets newspapers and letters from London. There’s news of Operation Steinbock  — a second Blitz of sorts. Lucy’s not really the religious sort, but she utters prayers of thanks when Mary sends a letter informing her that all of the Carlyles are safely out of London. 

There are little things that remind Lucy there’s a life outside of maps and battlefields. Anthony still fusses about his hair. Flo throws herself a birthday party and they have a grand time trying to play poker while heavily intoxicated. Lucy takes her clothing ration book, cuts out a few coupons, and orders a new dress for herself by post. It’s brick red and made out of slinky rayon. Lucy tries it on in the mirror and finds that she rather likes how the dramatic ‘V’ neckline and fluttering hem look on her.

It’s not a happiness built to last, Lucy knows now, but she’s glad of it. These kinds of joys are still weak compared to what she imagines a life under peace would be like. The ever-looming threat of annihilation doesn’t make just make her savor the moments more  — it makes her fight harder for a future full of them. 

… 

“We’re getting married.” 

Lucy, who had been pushing Quill in his chair, stops so abruptly that he nearly flies out of his seat. They exchange an incredulous look.

“Come again?”

“Flo and I are getting married,” George repeats, his nose still in a book as they stare at him. 

“ _ Why _ ?” Quill asks after regaining his ability to speak. “Not that  _ Madamoiselle Bonnard _ isn’t a lovely poppet, but —”

“I didn’t know you two were steady,” Lucy interrupts. 

George sighs (rather too dramatically) and snaps his book close. “We aren’t.” 

“If any of us were getting married, I thought it would be Lucy and Lockwood,” Quill says, and Lucy flushes pleasantly. “They’re practically joined at the lip.” 

“You mean hip.” 

“I said what I said, Carlyle.” 

“It’s not that hard to understand. If I die tomorrow, I don’t want my earthly possessions and my family’s land going to my brat cousin Archibald. Flo needs someone to help her establish connections in England. And I don’t hate her company.”

Lucy blinks. “That’s all?”

“You might be surprised to hear, Lucy, but I’m not much of an optimist,” George says. “I figure if our lives are in constant jeopardy, I might as well not spend my final days alone.” 

He takes off his glasses and cleans them on his shirt. 

“I think we’ve  _ all _ spent too much time alone.” 

The Cubbins-Bonnard wedding is a quiet affair. It’s performed by a military chaplain (an aging gentleman with a thick Yorkshire accent) in a little house that’s been converted into a church. Flo’s thick mess of blonde curls has been arranged into a plait, and she wears a cream-colored frock that looks slightly less wrinkly than her usual dresses. The groom looks rather like a toddler stuffed into church clothing, but Lucy’s never seen George in such a coordinated outfit before. As Anthony takes his seat next to Lucy, he shrugs as if to say  _ I tried _ . Lucy stifles a giggle. 

The ceremony is over in five minutes. Neither Flo or George write personalized vows, and Flo presents George with a watch during the exchanging of the rings. After their kiss, the chaplain has the pair sign a document and then leaves them to their celebration.

“Congratulations, Mr and Mrs Cubbins!” Holly exclaims. 

“Ms. Bonnard,” Flo corrects. “I do wish we’d gotten married in France. I think George would have enjoyed a  _ croquembouche _ .” 

“Ah, that reminds me. George, Lucy and I made a cake for you and your blushing bride,” Anthony says, reaching under his seat. There’s a paper box with a small white cake inside, made that morning with refined flour and real butter, which had cost a small fortune in ration tickets. George looks pleased. 

“Knowing Cubbins, that’s the real reason he got married,” Quill quips before pressing a small envelope into Flo’s hand. 

“Your wedding present.”

Flo and George open the envelope, shocked. Lucy peers over Flo’s shoulder and sees a white document with two star-spangled stamps: an American visa, marked for two people.

“What—”

“Why—”

“America’s still in the war, but they’ve been safe. No bombings, less rationing. A man working in international relations owes me a few favors, so I figured it’d be as good a present as any,” Quill says. 

Flo and George exchange a look. 

“I’m not leaving until my work here is done” Flo says, pushing the envelope back towards Kipps, who refuses it. 

“Keep it just in case, then,” Quill says. 

They don’t discuss it anymore after that. Holly herds the newly married couple to take a photograph. Still, Quill’s gift stays in everyone’s mind as what it really is: an opportunity, one almost impossible to find nowadays.

...

In March, as Operation Overlord transitions from plans on a chalkboard to fully-fleshed out schematics, changes start happening. Lucy is promoted to Corporal. When he hears the news, Anthony shows his joy by picking her ups and spinning her around rather wildly. 

“Corporal Carlyle has some charming alliteration to it,” Anthony remarks, kissing her on the nose. 

A part of her promotion that Lucy rather enjoys is the wide variety of people she gets to work with now. There are foreign officers reporting to her now, and she likes to hear their different accents and languages. She’d never been able to have a language tutor when she was younger, but Lucy picks up foreign vocabulary fast. When she was sixteen, Lucy’s life never extended outside of London. Now, Lucy dreams of the places she draws; she imagines speaking French in Quebec, or looking at  _ Maria Clara _ gowns in Manila. The world isn’t safe now, but perhaps it will be one day.

Flo returns to France. With the Z-Day preparations, the RAF needs translators with a knack for subterfuge, and Flo happens to be one of the best agents in both regards. Florence Bonnard leaves England with a new forged passport and a small band on her ring finger. George had pressed it into her hand right before she left. It seems war can make even George Cubbins sentimental.

…

“Lucy, I’ve been assigned to the French coast,” Anthony says. He’s holding her shoulders, looking down at her with an expression so sweet and miserable that Lucy knows that he must think her about to go into shock. It’s not an unfair assumption, judging by what happened last time he left England. She isn’t surprised. The men that had been sent here were the best men the RAF had, and it would be damned foolish if they didn’t call them back in this crucial hour. 

It had been something she had known in the back of her mind since she had first laid eyes on Anthony across that room, and yet it doesn’t dampen the blow. Lucy feels her throat constrict, and she blinks back tears. 

“When are you leaving?” she manages to ask. The warmth of his hands against her arms is her only tether to Earth at this moment. 

Anthony presses a gentle kiss to her inside of her wrist. “Next Thursday.”

His expression falls into something bordering despair, which makes something inside Lucy jolt. She’s not the one with the most to fear in this moment — Anthony is. Lucy can wallow over her pining heart all she wants when he’s gone, but Anthony has to face death in the eye, thousands of feet up in the air. 

“Anthony, you know I’ll write to you as much as they’ll permit me,” she says. It’s a simple and doable promise, which helps ground Lucy. 

“I promise I’ll come home to you,” Anthony says. Lucy opens her mouth, ready to tell him not to swear anything he can’t keep, but can’t make herself say it. She, despite everything, believes him. In the five years since he last promised her this, Lucy’s learned to cherish hope. 

“When you come back, we can have a wedding that will put George’s to shame,” Lucy says. Anthony smiles slightly. 

“What an exceptionally low bar you’ve set for us, Luce,” he teases. She laughs despite herself. Anthony kisses her knuckles, his gaze resting on the Lockwood family ring still adorning her hand. 

There’s no shame in her tears now. They’re not a weakness like she had once thought them to be — they’re an affirmation that she is really truly alive, feeling and breathing in the moment. As Anthony starts to silently weep, she holds him in his arms and repeats this affirmation over again in her head. Feeling. Breathing. The air in their lungs, their years stretched out before them. 

… 

There’s a going-away party in the Gravedigger the night before the pilots leaves. Lucy wears her new red dress, pins her hair, and strides into the bar with Anthony on her arm. There’s a small band in the corner she’s never seen before; a motley crew comprised of three women and an Aircraftman who looks barely old enough to be there. Still, they play a lovely American ditty. It feels like a last hurrah.

Quill wheels over to her as Anthony excuses himself to get their drinks. Kipps looks even paler than usual, dark bags under his eyes. He smells like cigarette smoke. The pair stand in silence, staring at the pilots in the bar for a good minute until Quill sighs. 

“Sometimes I feel so damned guilty that I can’t go with them any more,” he murmurs. “Sometimes I feel lucky. How many of them do you think will come back alive?”

Lucy is silent, but she reaches down and squeezes his shoulder.

Anthony returns and sweeps Lucy away. They dance through the night, the hours lost between whirls and drinks. 

Soon enough the music was winding down; the bar announces last call, and Lucy could already see the first edges of daybreak through the cracks in the window. If the Blitz hadn’t scared the birds away, perhaps there’d be birdsong right now. She bites her lip. In the morning the men from the RAF will be gone again, and they’ll all be thrown back into the war. 

But when Anthony extends his hand for a final dance, she takes it. It won’t be morning for another few minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes:   
\- In this AU, Flo is a displaced Frenchwoman. Her canon background translated quite well into this universe, and I wanted to acknowledge that people of many countries contributed to British Intelligence. She would have escaped from German-occupied France sometime in 1940, around the same time Lockwood left England.  
\- It's realistic that Anthony and Lucy have both never smoked before; of course it was a lot more common in the 20th century, but cigarettes were rationed for non-field soldiers (such as Lucy), and could be easily traded for other goods amongst soldiers (in the case of Anthony.) I just imagined they'd never pick up the habit.  
\- Certain alcohols were rationed during the war, and German and Italian imports were banned. British drinks such as beer or gin were never rationed, so I tried to keep this in mind for the bar scenes.  
\- Americans called it D-Day. The "D" stands for day. Brits called it Z-Day, with the "Z" standing for zero. Part of the reason it was inconsistent across the Allied powers was because Americans say "zee" and Brits say "zed."   
\- Licorice and licorice root were indeed some of the only sweets not rationed, entirely because not many people wanted it anyways.   
_ Starting in 1941, citizens were assigned red ration books for clothing. In 1944, a citizen was given 36 coupons for the whole year, and a dress such as the one Lucy ordered would have been 12 coupons. Homegirl spent 1/3 of her ration on a dress.   
\- Lockwood leaves around late March. D-Day will start on the 6th of June. 
> 
> You might notice that the total chapter amount has been changed from 3 to 4. There will indeed be another chapter, as this one grew to be quite long, and I didn't want to lose the focus or pacing of the story. Hope nobody minds. 
> 
> Thanks again to everyone who leaves kudos and comments! It means a lot to me. <3


	4. kingdoms built on stone

The world screams around her, and Lucy screams back. She’s no man’s secretary, no officer’s yes-man; there are lives at stake here, and she values them too much to put her position before them. Lucy strides through the halls of the RAF box, the sharp snap of her heels announcing her presence. In the rare nights where she sleeps in her own bed, words float around in her head like a nursery rhyme: Juno, Omaha, Gold, Sword, Utah. Holly tells her she’s been walking in her sleep. 

Lucy and Holly spend a lot more time together now. They sit together at their small dining table up into the early AM, working on their own individual assignments. They don’t discuss anything, but Holly’s presence is a great comfort to Lucy. Together they have a sacred kind of sisterhood; one not born of blood, but by bloodshed. She and Holly share tears, laughter, secrets. Lucy’s told her some things she’d never tell another living soul — not even Anthony. 

One night, in the rare hour where they both have an hour of free time and enough energy to use it, they share some toast and a bottle of French wine. 

“I hope you don’t mind me asking, love, but have you heard from your pilot recently?” Holly asks. She’s dressed in her full WAAF uniform, which clashes horribly with the fluffy purple socks she’s wearing. Lucy feels her heart flutter when Holly says “_ your pilot _.” 

“Oh yes, he’s sent a letter from somewhere in southwestern England. I’m lucky they let me read it. Apparently the rules on mail have been tight, but the air marshal seems to like me.” 

Holly sighs. “How romantic. You and Lockwood are really a lovely pair.”

Lucy shrugs, pleased. “How about you, Hols?” 

“Whatever do you mean?”

“I mean, you’re so pretty,” Lucy says, lolling over the arm of the sofa she’s spread across. “Don’t you have guys chasing after you?”

A raspberry flush blooms on Holly’s dark skin, which only enhances her good looks. She’s the kind of lovely that would have driven Lucy mad with jealousy had they met in her adolescence. Holly takes a slow sip of wine. 

“I suppose they’re not my type. I’ve never been partial to those...big, testosterone-filled men,” Holly says. 

Lucy nods. Anthony isn’t a stereotypically masculine man either, so she thinks she can follow Holly’s line of thinking.

Lucy finishes her glass and grumbles: “You’re just like Quill. None of the girls at base are _ his _ type either.” 

... 

It was supposed to happen on June 4th, but Holly comes into the war room with her weather team, their arms ladened with photographs and telegraphs.

“We can’t launch today,” the head meteorologist explains to an exhausted-looking general. “The weather is too windy on the beach.”  
They send out messages to the troops to reschedule for the 5th, but the weather turns out to be just as bad. Lucy wonders if this is a deliberate curse — or perhaps blessing — from the Earth itself, stopping its inhabitants from performing the acts that leave its surface pox-scarred and ugly. Lucy’s nerves are killing her. Each day is a delay of the inevitable, but it’s also another morning where the soldiers live.  
One day, she wakes just as the sun begins to rise. It’s an unusual morning; not just because of her early awakening, but because of the sunlight that peeks through the curtains. Lucy blinks in the light, her groggy brain wondering who decided to switch on the light before it clicks: it’s summer. In prior years, Lucy would have eagerly delighted in the sunlight (which was rare in this part of the world), but today it only makes her feel sick. She opens her curtains, breathes in the fresh air, and wonders if the rays of the sun extend all the way to France.

It’s June 6th, and the head meteorologist gives them the all-clear to launch the invasion. Parachuters have already scoped the cliffs the night before, so all that’s left to do is _ go _. Lucy takes a second to picture Anthony: his eyes bright, clad in full RAF unfit, there in the skies over the beaches of France. She aches for him for the briefest of moments, and then snaps her attention back to the maps. She’s one of ten women in the war room right now, and there are lived on her shoulders.

Lucy thinks of Florence Bonnard, somewhere in Paris. She wonders if it’s Flo relaying the messages from France, or some other unnamed individuals. Her heart clenches. So much of this relies on people scattered to the winds, strangers she’ll never meet who have lost and fought just like her. She utters a silent word of thanks to these unknown people. 

“Corporal Carlyle, report on the location of our Higgins boats.” A captain instructs, and the war games begin.

… 

Victory, like most things, is not instantaneous. The headline in the evening edition of The Guardian is optimistic, announcing the Normandy Landing as the first step on the road to a certain Allied win. For those in the RAF box, the first day is a failure. 

But it goes on.

The Allied troops continue until they capture Cherbourg on the 24th of June, nearly twenty days after their first arrival on the beaches. Some men have been sent home, already. Lucy sees them come in, some on stretchers and wheelchairs, some in wooden boxes. There are meticulous lists of those accounted for, those honorably discharged, those injured, and those killed. 

Wing Commander Anthony Lockwood isn’t on any of those lists. Instead, his name is listed near the bottom of a sheet bearing the letters “M.I.A.”

…

Anthony Lockwood was amongst the first pilots to take off from Portsmouths on the evening of the 4th. He had been wearing the standard RAF uniform, and (due to the unusually cold weather for this time of the year) had worn an aviator jacket over that. He had eaten a meal comprised of canned meat and instant oatmeal an hour before getting in his plane. He had piloted an Avro Lancaster heavy bomber plane, specially equipped to drop metal convoy over the beaches to confuse German radar technology. At around 4 am, Greenwich Mean Time, his plane’s signal had been lost somewhere over the English Channel. 

And that’s where his story seems to end.

…

“Operation Overlord really does seem to have been the beginning of the end,” George notes. Lucy doesn’t look up from where she’s sat, curled up on a hard plastic bench like a cat. She doesn’t have to turn around to know that George is smoking a cigarette (likely snatched from Quill), or that Quill is sat in his wheelchair. Lucy makes a vague noise in response.

In the two months that have passed, Lucy has surprised herself with her ability to balance work and life; that is, she has shocked herself with her capabilities of keeping her head above water while mourning. It feels almost like she’s living her life on repeat. The overwhelming feeling of grief doesn’t feel any less raw the second time around. 

A man comes down the hallway and greets Kipps. The stranger is broad and dark-haired, with a heavy chin. He stares down at Lucy, and she realizes a second too late that he wants her to move. She scrambles to do so. The man unfolds himself, propping his foot on his knee and slinging an arm on the top of the bench.

The stranger takes a seat next to her, sighing dramatically. Kipps clears his throat.

“Corporal Carlyle, this is Aircraftman Hunt,” he says, gesturing towards the broad man. 

Hunt grunts at her before turning his attention back to Kipps. “What were you talkin’ bout, ginge? The mood seems awfully different now that I’m here.” 

George and Lucy exchange a look. 

“We were discussing the impact of Operation Overlord,” George says. He looks annoyed, and he speaks slowly as if he doesn’t believe Hunt to have the intellectual capacity to understand his vocabulary. Judging by the way Hunt blinks at him, he might be right.

“Oh, right. What a bloody mess that was.” 

Lucy blinks, and out of the corner of her eyes, sees Quill’s normally pasty face grow red.

“What do you mean by that, Aircraftman?” Quill asks. 

“Those idiots that let themselves be killed like that — no wonder it’s taken so long for us to reach Paris. They’re traipsing around like ducks.”

The temperature seems to drop ten degrees, and Quill’s face is now comparable to a tomato in hue.

“I believe you’re speaking out of line, Hunt,” Lucy says. Hunt sneers at her.

“Who are you to talk to me that way,?” His gaze flickers to her name badge and rank insignia. “Oh, Lucy Carlyle. I’ve heard of you.”

Lucy is caught off guard. “What?”

“Yeah. That Anthony prat wouldn’t stop talking about you. He’s the one disappeared, isn’t he?” Hunt sneers. “If you ask me, he probably ran off to join his fellow Chinamen—”

She doesn’t recall her thoughts up to the action, but Lucy is aware of standing up and punching Hunt square in the jaw. Her knuckles are raw, but the rush adrenaline gives her is worth it.

“That’s _ Corporal _ Carlyle to you,” Lucy seethes. “And I’d better not hear another damn word of disrespect for any soldier that died for you and this country.”

Hunt casts a panicked look to Quill and George, as if expecting them to come to his defense, but they stare at him with twin looks of disgust. Grumbling, Hunt leaves quickly, his ego more bruised than his face.

Lucy sits back down, her hand growing numb. Quill says something to her, but she doesn’t hear the words. She’d known this whole time that Anthony was dead and gone, but saying it out loud was another thing altogether.

Even more so because, despite herself, she still doesn’t truly believe it.

… 

Lucy goes to America.

No one expects it, but it kind of all happens at once. 

It starts with her sister Mary, who never stopped helping with the Polish refugees that they met at the embassy. At first it’s a simple request; a map of England drawn specifically for refugees of the war. Lucy labels the embassies that are still open, and where the governments-in-exile are. It feels like there are a half-dozen different countries operation out of England now, with Germany’s vice-like grip on Europe only tightening.

“People are worried that England will be the next to fall,” Mary explains. 

“Even after the Normandy landing?”

Mary shrugs. “Nothing is certain. Everyone around the world heard about the heavy losses on that beach.”

Lucy feels a shiver down her spine, and doesn’t question Mary anymore. Hearing about the fighting over on the continent is one thing, but seeing it reflected in the faces of people is another. She’s always held on tight to the idea of pushing through the grief of the war, but Lucy’s never thought about the people who have nothing left to fight for. None of them are lucky, but Lucy looks at lists of the displaced and missing and wonders what makes it so that her suffering is just a little bit more comfortable than theirs.

Now that she has a bit more free time, Lucy helps Mary with her resettlement work. She gets to know the refugees in the surrounding area well; there aren’t as many as there are in London, with Wiltshire being predominantly a military base, but the amount is still substantial. Lucy enjoys talking to them, especially the younger girls. They look up to her, which makes her feel like an _ older _ sister for once in her life. 

There’s one girl in particular who seems to really adore Lucy. Her name is Czesława Piotrowski, a bright-eyed girl of around 13 with wild hair and round cheeks. She’s unusually solemn for a girl her age, but she seems to cheer up substantially whenever Lucy visits her. She insists that Lucy call her Czessy.

Lucy is unsure what exactly Czessy was persecuted for in Nazi Poland (the list is so long, after all), but she isn’t really sure if she wants to ask. Brave as she might be, Czessy is still barely an adolescent, and becomes understandably weepy whenever the topic of her homeland is brought up. 

“Not all of my family lived in Poland,” Czessy says one day. She doesn’t discuss her personal history often, preferring to gawk over fashion magazines and discuss news, so this is unusual. Czessy’s face is pale, but her small mouth is set in a determined line. “My mama and papa and I lived in Malbork before they — sent me away to England,” the teenager continues, cutting herself off mid sentence. 

Lucy doesn’t need to ask what became of her parents. The northern city of Malbork had become a German stronghold and had been particularly unlucky during the war, with an outbreak of disease and had been nearly plateaued by bombing from both sides. There’s a long silence after that; Lucy gets the feeling that Czessy wants to say more, and so she keeps silent.

“I had..._ have _ a half-brother from my papa’ _ s _ first marriage. He was kind to me, but seventeen years older. Aleksander moved to New York when I was little so I didn’t know he would remember me, but he sent me a letter recently.”

Saying this, she hands Lucy an envelope marked with the stars and spangles of the American postal service. 

“What did he say?” Lucy asks, her voice unusually soft. Czessy’s shaking like a leaf, but she still straightens herself up.

“He said he had just heard of what happened to our family and learned that I was living in England. And that he has a room ready for me in Brooklyn if I come to America.”

Lucy’s hopes rise and fall within the span of the sentence. It’s been hard for Polish refugees to make it to the other side of the Atlantic. There have been some, but from what Lucy has heard, most of the Poles who had settled down in America were adults, already established with education or a desirable wartime trade. It would be much harder for a parentless girl to emigrate. Still, the news that Czessy has a kind living relative in a safe country is undoubtedly good news.

She’s suddenly reminded of Quill’s wedding gift to Flo and George. The visas sit in the Cubbins-Bonnard flat, unwrinkled and unused. With Flo off in France, and George safe in Wiltshire, Lucy wonders if he would be kind enough to give them to her. 

George does, and his tone is unusually kind when he asks that Lucy put them to good use. She swears to him that she will. Lucy first tells Mary, asking her if perhaps Mary could find another Polish woman to accompany Czessy to New York, but Mary shakes her head.

“She’s already been through so much tragedy in her life. It would be hard for her to move with a stranger.”

Lucy blinks. “Should we just let one spot go to waste, then? Who will go with Czessy to America?”

“You should, of course.” 

It’s an easier decision to make than she thought. Czessy needs her, and ultimately, no one in England does. Her sisters have been grown for ages, with her mother being cared for by those still living in London. Lucy is surrounded by ghosts, and although she survives day-to-day, she knows that it drains her like a slow suffocation. All of her friends are emotional when she announces that she’s leaving for America (Quill keeps staring intensely at her knees, mostly to hide the fact that he’s clearly crying), but nothing compares to Czessy’s face when Lucy tells her she can take them to New York.

“Are you certain?” she asks, her green eyes wide, her girlishness more apparent than ever. Lucy wonders if she was ever this sincere and unjaded.

“Yes, of course,” Lucy says, and finds herself nearly toppled over by the most energetic hug she’s ever had.

So they leave for America on a Monday, and Lucy finds herself fitting her whole life into a single suitcase once again.  
…

New York City is unlike any other city she’s lived in before. Lucy can’t quite place her finger on why, but perhaps the list of reasons extends longer than just a single bullet point. The general air of the country is different; relatively unscathed by the war, the American homefront has a strange sense of campy optimism. The accents are unlike anything Lucy’s heard before as well; they’re not as refined as the movie stars’ in the Hollywood pictures, but she doesn’t find them disagreeable.

Aleksander Piotrowski is a round-faced bachelor of around thirty, with a pleasant voice and the same wild green eyes as Czesława. He’s quiet and kind, and although the two siblings’ interactions are awkward at first, they seem to bond quickly. Lucy stays at his Brooklyn flat for a few hours, helping Czessy settle in, but ultimately declines Aleksander’s offer to stay for the night.

“I have a flat lined up in Manhattan,” she explains, “but that’s very kind of you.”

Czessy doesn't cry when she learns that Lucy is leaving but she does chase her down after they’re already said their final goodbyes.

“Wait! Lucy, I wanted to tell you—” the girl has to double over to catch her breath, her pale cheeks flushed from running. Lucy waits patiently, and again wonders why this thirteen year old is making her feel so damn old at 22.

Czessy catches her breath. “I wanted to tell you my new _ American _ name,” she announces proudly..

“Oh? Why are you changing your name?”

“It seems so fun! Aleksander will still call me Czesława, but English speakers can never pronounce it correctly,” Czessy says, and Lucy wonders now if their closeness was the _ only _ reason she insisted that Lucy call her by a nickname. She’s a bit too old now to hold this over a teenager’s head, so she finds herself more amused than anything.

“What name have you chosen?”

Czessy squares her shoulders and smiles wildly.

“You always called me Czessy so...I decided to go with Jessie, or Jessica.”

Inexplicably, Lucy finds herself fighting the urge to cry. Jessie shuffles her feet shyly.

“Do you like it?”

Lucy reaches out and envelopes the newly renamed girl in a hug.

“Jessica Piotrowski,” she whispers into Jessie’s dark hair. “It’s splendid.”

…

BBC announces victory in Europe on a sunny May morning. Lucy hears the news on her radio, and although the accent of the broadcaster reminds her of home, she looks outside her window and is shocked to realize that she’s ended the war a thousand miles from where she started. From her window, she can see the Statue of Liberty off in the distance.

She can hear her neighbors begin to get the news of cease-fire around her; their cheers come through the thin walls that separate their flat. Almost as if they have a will of their own, her feet lead her down to the street. Lucy’s not the only person with the idea. Around her, she can see people hugging each other, some already looking drunk at this time in the morning. She’s smiled at a few times and offered handshakes and embraces, but Lucy doesn’t take them. Instead, she stands in the middle of the street, where cars have stopped completely, and looks at the block around her. This world — it feels as if she’s never seen it before. No one seems to take offense at her spaciness.

One of her neighbors (a young man who still had scars on his face from his campaign in Italy) mentions that a celebration seems to be happening in the center of Manhattan. Lucy follows them uptown in a trance. 

People join them as they walk through the city. Lucy hears all sorts of languages ring out in celebration, sees people from all walks of life greet each other. Storeowners close businesses and join them, handing out drinks and food to their fellow celebrators. Someone thrusts a bouquet of sweet-smelling lavender into Lucy’s arms and she clutches them abroad her chest.

Lucy doesn’t need to look up to see if they’ve reached Times Square — she can feel it in the way the energy shifts. The air is electric, and Lucy finds herself in the middle of the largest crowd she’s ever been to in her life. There are large cameras set up on the balconies, and some people are throwing around copies of the morning’s paper. Lucy catches one out of the air and scans the front page.

_ May 8, 1945 _.

With a jolt, Lucy realizes that this is the first day of peace she’s had in years. The cognizance of it makes her drop the paper in shock. Her knees feel weak, and Lucy has to keep herself from crumpling to the ground; swaying slightly, Lucy looks up. 

There have been children who have grown up never knowing a world at ease, children who have barely known their fathers and mothers. She thinks of foreign lands, of young people traveling miles to never see their home countries again. She remembers the people she has lost, scattered to the winds or to ash. Soon, Lucy knows her work with wartime programs will be done. What will she do afterwards? Lucy tries to imagine herself in college, or perhaps moving back to London. She’s only 22, but it feels like she’s lived several lifetimes already. 

For a second, she imagines meeting a man and starting a family, but the thought becomes too painful and she blinks away tears. 

The crowd moves enmasse, pulsing and breathing as one jubilant flock. There’s shouting coming from all directions.

“U-S-A! U-S-A!”

“Happy Birthday, Mr President!” 

“We’ve crushed Hitler — now onto Hirohito!”

Lucy tosses out stems of lavender to the people next to her, her gaze remaining unfocused as she wonders how her countrymen are reacting to the news. Surely they’ve heard by now? The time difference can’t be that dramatic. 

Someone collides with her as they pass by the Knickerbocker hotel, but she’s steadied by a pair of strong arms before she can lose her balance.

“I’m so sorry, miss —”

The accent is familiar, because it’s _ her own _. Lucy whirls around and finds herself staring into the brightest, most brilliant eyes she’s ever seen. She feels the grip on her shoulders slack, but she hardly even registers it. Standing in front of her is a ghost.

“..._ Anthony _.”

It’s not a question. 

His face breaks into a teary smile, and he presses her hands to his lips. Anthony John Lockwood stares at her with a reverence.

“Lucy,” he murmurs, and she can feel his breath against her knuckles. 

One day, he’ll tell her about her about how he was captured in Normandy by German troops shortly after the storming of the beach. He’ll tell her how he was a prisoner of war in Poland, held in separate compounds from those with Slavic and Jewish heritage. He’ll recount the misery, remember living the days with his head held high and his father’s family name on the tip of his tongue. He’ll tell Lucy, hands shaking, about the day American troops came and liberated the camp, and how they treated him in France and delivered him to New York. He’ll tell her of the letters he wrote her, letters that ended up being sent back to him when no one at her Wiltshire flat responded. One day, he’ll explain all of this.

But today, on this sunny summer morning, all Anthony can do is kiss her.

He’s the sweetest thing she’s ever tasted.

… 

He proposes to her the day the war ends in Japan, but they stay engaged for a good three years before getting married. During that time, Anthony graduates with a degree in Business, Lucy publishes her first book, and Lucy introduces him to Jessie Piotrowski. When they move back to London the month of their wedding, Jessie promises that she’ll join them for the event.

She does, and so does everyone else. Holly is her maid-of-honor, and she looks a vision in soft pastel pink. The delicate silk, so rare during war times, is so beautiful on her that Lucy almost feels compelled to kiss her friend. Quill Kipps comes, white ribbons streaming on his wheelchair as he rolls down the aisle next to Lucy. Florence and George both attend, their son (a sweet six-year-old adopted from France) the ring bearer. Although George’s suit is still wrinkled beyond belief, the little Cubbins’ tuxedo is immaculately ironed. Anthony jokes that any child of George and Flo would probably need to learn to do his own laundry at an early age, and they all laugh.

The newly-minted Mr and Mrs Lockwood move to a neat house in a quiet neighborhood of London. Anthony reopens his family’s business. Lucy’s first novel is a surprising success, and the second one manages to usurp it. She’s surprised; her novels were both fiction, focusing on subjects that she thought most people didn’t care for: romance, emotion, and the exploration of identity. When Anthony reads the reviews outloud to her (all glowingly positive, and yet Lucy still couldn’t manage to read them herself), Lucy realizes that that is the kind of story her generation needs. They grew up in the darkest hour of humanity, and anything kind and uniquely human is a blessing.

“What’s next for the incomparable Lucy?” Anthony asks, propping his head up with his hand.   
  
“Perhaps another book. Perhaps a dog? Perhaps another new family member altogether,” Lucy says, and Anthony waggles his eyebrows. Lucy laughs and leans over the kitchen table, kissing him on the nose. “Or perhaps I’ll just finish off these pancakes and take the day off. It’s lovely weather today, and I thought I’d go to the park.” 

Lucy takes a sip of tea and shrugs in a charming sort of way.

“Who knows? We have a lot of days left to live. Let's enjoy them."

And they do.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Thank you so much for accompanying me to the end of this story. I hope you guys enjoyed it as much as I did writing it. Please consider leaving a review telling me what you thought. Thank you all for the warm reception!
> 
> Historical Notes will be added soon. :)


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